


I don't want a lot for christmas ...

by olive2read



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive2read/pseuds/olive2read
Summary: Tim would have beenfinenever knowing that fucking card existed ...
Relationships: Danny Stoker/Tim Stoker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	I don't want a lot for christmas ...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/gifts), [nervouscupcakeinspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervouscupcakeinspace/gifts).



> Thank you so so so much to you two fantastic deviants!
> 
> Titles from "All I Want for Christmas" by Mariah Carey

Tim is browsing through the humour section, looking for something with just the right balance of snark and silliness, when he sees it. The card is peeking out from behind a stack labelled ‘for the bookworm,’ its deep blue cover drawing his eye. Pulling it out, his mouth drops open in shock and he immediately stuffs it back onto the shelf, not bothering to ensure he’s put it back where he found it. He blindly selects a random card for Sasha and flees toward the front of the store, and safety.

He doesn’t escape the memory, however. The image is seared into his brain and he can’t stop thinking about it. _I must have misread it_ , he tells himself firmly, _it wasn’t real_. He flushes at the thought there might be a market for cards like that. Well, a market that includes people other than him. He doesn’t dare try searching for others; he shudders to think what the results page would present.

He shoves the card to the back of his mind and gets on with things.

Hours later, he’s sitting at his desk, unable to focus on the manuscript in front of him, when the coppery tang of blood alerts him to the fact he’s bitten his lip. His leg is bouncing frenetically under his desk, his pulse is thundering in his throat, and his skin is damp with sweat. He has to know.

He grabs for his wallet and keys and heads toward the door, not bothering to shut down his computer. It’s not as though he’s done any work that needs saving.

In less than twenty minutes he’s on the pavement outside the shop where he saw it. All that rush to get here and, suddenly, he’s not sure if he should go in, not sure what outcome he’s hoping for. A rude little voice inside his head pipes up that he’s lying to himself and he grimaces at the truth.

He goes inside.

He finds the shelf again easily. Stack upon stack of generic, trite jokes and cartoony animals smiling widely. No sign of that deep blue background, nor the glint of the unseasonal gold star atop one of the trees. He tells himself that he shouldn’t be surprised. It had to have been a mirage. Message aside, it was a christmas card and, obviously, shops don't stock those in July.

He’s just about convinced himself, trying to ignore the heavy feeling of disappointment in the pit of his stomach, when he sees an edge of blue out of the corner of his eye. He swallows, his mouth suddenly rough and dry, and reaches a shaking hand toward it.

It’s real alright, and exactly as he’d remembered it.

Clutching it tightly to his chest, he indulges himself in a brief fantasy of buying it proudly and giving it to Danny. Maybe he wouldn’t even wait for December. He could play it off as a joke. That’s all it would ever be, right? He and Danny would laugh about the crazy shit people do, Danny would have some amazing insight to add to the mix, and then they’d go back to their lives as though nothing had changed.

Because nothing would, right? He’s promised himself, ever since the depth of his feelings became clear, that he would never act on them. He can’t bring himself to do that to Danny, can’t face the thought of how Danny would react if he knew the things Tim dreams about.

And it’s not like Tim thinks about it, much. Not really. Most of his wank fantasies are centred on the person, or people, he’s currently fucking. He loves his sex life. He knows what he likes, which is basically everything, and knows what he’s good at, which is also basically everything. He’s satisfied. Content.

Sometimes, though, if he’s not seeing anyone when Danny visits, the feelings threaten to drown him. Sometimes it’s all he can do to paste on a smile and keep up his happy-go-lucky façade until Danny’s gone again. It’s fortunate that Danny only visits a few times a year or the slumps Tim falls into each time he leaves would be harder to manage.

He can’t do this. He _knows_ he can’t do this. It’s not even whether or not he could actually give this card to Danny—he couldn’t—but he also can’t possibly walk brazenly up to the till and slap this on the counter. And yet, he can’t bring himself to put it back. He closes his eyes, as though not seeing himself do this will mean it isn’t happening, and oh so casually slips the card into his coat pocket. He looks around, feeling obviously furtive, but no one seems to be paying him any attention.

Taking a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and walks toward the door. His head is pulsing in time with his heart beat. He’s certain that any minute now someone is going to stop him, to call out, but no one does. It isn’t as though he’s never shoplifted before but the stakes are so much higher if he gets caught this time.

On the pavement outside, he nearly falls to his knees in relief but manages to only stumble a little, catching himself on a bollard. A lorry whizzes past as he gasps for breath and he grips the post more tightly, thankful it was there to stop him becoming a road hazard.

He reaches a hand down and pats his pocket, relaxing a little at the feel of the card tucked there securely. Straightening up, he smooths his clothing and starts off home.

* * *

Tim can tell by the look on Danny’s face that something is wrong.

“Dan?” he asks, then again when there’s no response, “Danny?”

Danny slows raises his eyes up to meet Tim’s. For a moment he says nothing and Tim is afraid something truly awful has happened. He grabs for his phone to dial 999 when Danny thrusts a piece of paper toward him.

“Tim?” he says, voice quavering. “What _is_ this?”

Tim feels all the blood drain from his face and the room spins a little. In Danny’s hand is the card. That fucking card.

The last time Danny had visited had been the hardest yet. Patching the hole torn out of Tim’s soul had taken weeks and, unlike the previous times, Tim hasn’t been able to keep it from crumbling.

He’d stared at the card for hours every night, drinking whisky after whisky. He couldn’t concentrate at work, didn’t want to see his mates, he’d even lost all desire to fuck. Once he’d written them out, the feelings had receded enough that he could get on with things.

He _knows_ he shouldn’t have kept it, especially once he’d awoken, hungover but strangely buoyant, to find he’d poured his feelings out onto the card. But he hasn’t been able to throw it away. That card is the only place he can share everything he wishes he could say to Danny. It’s not like he has any other outlet for the feelings that have been consuming him.

"I—" Tim starts to say, then stops. He what? What can he possibly say? He swallows and tries again. "Danny—"

He chokes, unable to come up with anything further, as Danny takes a step forward, his other hand coming up. Tim closes his eyes. Braces for the blow he knows is coming, knows he deserves.

He’s completely unprepared for the kiss.


End file.
